The Here, Now
by tessiete
Summary: Parenting is a constant struggle not just to do right, but to do better. This is what Spock, and Uhura fought for, and this is the letting go. Safiri is a child of every world, and every place is home.
1. Chapter 1

**When** Safiri steps off the shuttle at va'Keshtu, he turns, and waves to his parents, a wide grin glinting in the sunlight, as bright as polished bones in the desert. They stay onboard, his mother crying, his father looking grave, his hand upraised in the formal salute, looking out the window.

They are hardly out of sight before he's pulled out his communicator, and tapped out a quick, teasing message to his mother.

"Don't cry," he chides. "Or Baba-al will call me home in a panic before the semester's even begun!"

He adds his love, and chuckles as he pockets the device once more. Acceptance into the New Vulcan Science Academy is an honor he feels acutely, and a privilege he is more than conscious of, having had to fight his father to attend.

"This is not a debate, sa-fu," his father had reasoned, when he'd accused him of jealousy, and long-held resentment. "Nor is it a discussion, for you will not be attending."

"But, Baba!" he whined, "Baba, nam'tor du kloshu'riolozhikaik! No Vulcan ever turns down the Academy."

And if he were not Vulcan, he would not have been able to see his father wince. If he were not human, he would not understand why. If he were not human, he would not have felt the cold fish hook of guilt catch on the bottom of his stomach, and pull.

"Correct," his father replied. "And no Vulcan shall."

"Dorli'sa-mekh," he begins, an apology colouring the words to near incoherency. "I did not mean -"

"You did not misspeak, t'sa-fu. And that is precisely why I shall not permit it."

His father leaves the room, eyes cast down in the way that speaks of study, and of shame. Ko-mekh has, of course, heard the whole thing. The look on her face when Safiri meets her gaze makes him feel twice ashamed.

"Dorli'ko-mekh -" he says. "Ko-mama, I did not mean what I said."

She shakes her head.

"Safiri-kam, you never think before you open your mouth, do you?"

The reprimand is real, but she softens it by offering the crook of her little finger to him. Immediately, craving the comfort of contact, he steps forward and wraps his finger in her own.

"Tonight, you'll be making dinner again, won't you?"

"I suppose so, ko-mekh."

"Then, I suggest that you come up with a more thorough, and logical presentation of your case. If you still want to go, that is."

Safiri nods, relief flooding through him. His mother won't fight his battles, but at least he knows he's got a cut-man in this match. He smiles, and hugs her. Another feeling – excitement – washes down to his toes, making them buzz like bees. Safiri bounces on them, a runner at the blocks.

"Yes, ko-mekh!"

With much work ahead of him, he makes for a quick, and jocund exit, only delayed briefly as his mother follows him with, "And it'd better not be your off-brand barkaya marak, again, Safi! It's hard to remember you're asking for forgiveness when you're feeding us poison."

"How was I supposed to know peanuts weren't a good substitute for it?"

"I don't want to spend another night with your father in the fresher!"

"Okay!" he hollers back.

That night, after visiting every market from here to Cairo (and maxing out his transit card for the month), Safiri feels reasonably confident about his traditional balk'ra.

His father and mother sit at his left, and right, two glasses of water in front of them. He's pulled out the long, Vulcan flutes his father gave his mother on their bonding day, the clarity of the glass signifying sincerity of intent, their length indicating its depth. They are a somewhat antiquated practice, as they were traditionally offered to a bond-mate as an apology for truly felt affection, something which most Vulcans eschew acknowledgement of altogether. But before Baba, the previous owner had been Safiri's grandfather, the flawless crystal offered to him by his keenly emotional wife, and now, Safiri pulls them out for his own apologies. Rarely, are they hidden long enough to gather dust. Out of respect for his parents, Safiri drinks nothing.

Then, when the first glass has been finished (mercifully, his mother threw it back with a careless, "I was thirsty" to her husband), Safiri brings the balk'ra to the table, and passes it out.

"Are there any ingredients in this dish you feel it necessary to warn me of, Safiri-kam?" his father asks, spoon poised halfway between his plate, and his mouth.

"No, Baba," he drawls. He plays disdain, but secretly, he knows his father's teasing portends good things. "I used only real ra'mashya, I promise."

"How did you -"

"Baba," his mother interrupts, "With Safiri, it's probably better not to ask."

Safiri has the length of the meal to present his case to his father. In diplomatic circles, interest or dismissal can be politely displayed by the pace at which dignitaries eat. At home, it is the same. His mother eats very, very slowly.

"Baba, to be granted admittance to the Vulcan Science Academy is a great honor," he says. He repeats this more than once, not because it is his reason for going, but because he thinks it is something his father, the brightest embodiment of dignity and grace he knows, has forgotten.

"They have the most exciting programmes," he offers, outlining the biophysics, and xenobotany courses he wants to take.

"The professors have more than one thousand years experience between them," he presses, summarising the qualifications of each.

"All the facilities are practically new," he expounds, showing his father the technical specifications of each of the three laboratories.

"And," he concludes, "It would be a singularly logical way of learning more about my own heritage, and people, Baba."

His father's face is as detached as he can manage, which means he is most displeased. His brows dig deep, and his hands are steepled before him. He has listened, but listened in silence.

The thin click of his mother's spoon hitting the porcelain plate rings out, a bell signalling the beginning of a bout.

"Baba?" he questions.

At this, his father stirs. He rolls his shoulders back, assuming a rigid, upright posture, pulling in a deep breath of befuddlement.

"Safiri," he says, "I cannot deny any of the information you have presented to me, and I must confess, I have no objection to the Academy as an academic institute. Indeed, despite its -" he hesitates, "disadvantage - it stands already as one of the foremost research complexes in the Federation."

"Then what's the problem?" Safiri pushes. Somehow, he's still not winning.

"The problem is that you are not Vulcan, Safiri, and it is no place for outsiders."

"What?" That fish hook is back, but now it's scraping across his lungs, and heart. It's not guilt, but hurt, and humiliation that takes him now. "But Iam Vulcan!"

"Safiri -"

"Kroykah!"

His mother's voice rings out across the table, as she drops her utensils to her plate. Everything stutters into silence.

"I am finished," she says. "Safiri, please clear the table. T'adun, betau."

She rises, and his father rises with her. He bows his head.

"Betau-sarlah nash-veh," he replies.

They speak in a mix of languages, in the next room, as though Safiri is still too young to understand. Their words flip back and forth, his mother's often riding over his father's, who waits for the smallest pause to tuck his rebuttals into the conversation. There are several creative Orion curses upon men thrown in, a couple Klingon obscenities, and even one or two Terran phrases Safiri knows she picked up from Leonard McCoy. His father must be familiar with them too, because those are the ones that he hardly stumbles over in his response.

"Are you out of your Vulcan mind?" she demands. "Spock, that is your son, your Vulcan son. Or did you not notice the pointy ears after all these years?"

"I do not dispute his parentage, Nyota, however that does not mean-"

"Then how exactly do you figure you can dismiss his heritage when it's so blatantly plastered across his face?"

"He is not full Vulcan, my wife, and I did not misspeak by telling him so. The Vulcan Science Academy is a proud -"

"You did misspeak, Spock. You did."

"I do not understand."

"You hurt him. You made him feel like less than he is. How can you not understand that?"

"It was not my intention -"

"This is about your fear, isn't it? This is about you."

"It is about our son's foolish desire to attend an institution where he would not be welcome."

"He is welcome, though," she insists. "They welcomed him when they offered him a place."

"That is not the same."

"Just because you -"

"No," his father is stern, his voice loud, too loud to smother the emotion it holds. "I will not see him insulted, and discriminated against at such a place."

There is a hush. Safiri hardly breathes, for fear of reminding them that the dishes were few, and his presence more attentive to them than his task.

Finally, "T'wuh-rak el-ru," she murmurs, "Zat-ozh, your life will not be his life. And Safiri is not you. I know what frightens you -"

"Nyota, I am not -"

"- But this is Safiri's choice. You can't protect him forever, and you'll only hurt him by trying. You cannot tell your son who and what he is, Spock, or you do to him the same disservice that was done to you, do you understand?"

"I am trying," he replies. "I do not wish to...to hurt-"

"No," his mother soothes. "And Safiri knows that. He will forgive you. But you've got to let him go."

The next night, his father cooks the meal, and Safiri drinks from the tall, clear glass.

Planetside, and on his own, the New Vulcan city around him buzzes with life – at least, as much as Vulcans can be said to 'buzz'. Everyone walks with industry in their steps. Their eyes are focused. Conversations are held face to face, in small alcoves carved into the stone walls of the buildings for this purpose. Each space offers its tiny, vaulted ceiling to the resonating of words spoken beneath its arch, for clear, and precise communication is highly revered here. Unlike the aimless strollers beneath clear, Terran skies, each Vulcan moves and speaks with purpose. Safiri smiles. He's been here once a year, every year since his fifth birthday, and it feels like home. This city is as much his as Nairobi, San Francisco, Riverside, or Buford. Perhaps, the only place more comfortable is above the near subaural hum of nacelles in his family's quarters aboard the Enterprise. But here,were it not for the slight pleasure on his face, respectfully restrained in public, and his gently rounded brows, there would be nothing to distinguish him from this Vulcan, or the next.

He walks, as they do, in single file, careful not to brush shoulders, careful to observe the casual policies of city life. He dips his head, and raises a hand when he meets clan-mates, or elders. As he passes from the market, through the Academy grounds, and toward the Elder Rooms, this happens more and more frequently.

He doesn't offer his hand to shake, or give in to joyous pats on the back in recognition of friends. When he presents himself to T'Pau, as all grandchildren, and great-grandchildren must do upon their arrival to the city, he doesn't embrace her, or kiss her cheeks. These are his father's people. These are his people, and he cares for them. It is their due, and their preference. He respects that, with the unthinking comprehension of a lifetime of immersion. Kaiidth.

As a child, his father had attempted to explain the concept to him, but when Safiri tried to apply the it to his own life, they were inevitably frustrated by the lack of comprehension on either end.

"Maybe he's too young for it," his mother offered.

"That is not so," his father replied, "For it is a tenant taught to Vulcan children younger than he."

"I'd wager Vulcan children aren't half as irritating in their interrogations, though, are they?" She'd said behind a smirk.

"But Baba," Safiri wheedled, "If what is, is, then why do we try to change so much stuff?"

"Because progress is a laudable aim," he said.

"But Baba, if that is so – and it must be, because what is, is – then what about people who have different aims than you, and stop your progress?"

"What do you mean, Safiri-kam?" asked his mother.

"I mean, what if – what if, what if there's a mean boy who says things that are the opposite from what you think he should say?"

"That is not precisely the same thing, Safiri -"

"Is this a real mean boy, kidege?"

His Baba is not understanding, and ko-mekh is getting distracted, so he presses onward.

"What if," he starts, squeezing his brows together, "Pretend someone says that you are wrong for being you."

"Did someone tell you that?"

"Is that someone wrong?"

"Yes, Safiri-kam," his father assures him, strong and tight.

"Then, is it wrong to feel mad?"

"No," his mother states. "What is, is."

But his father hesitates.

"Safiri," he says. "Vulcans do not feel anger. Resentment is not logical."

"But I feel anger, Baba."

What is, is.

After he's visited the Elders to declare his presence, and offer his respect, he catches a flitter to the outskirts of the city. He disembarks with a few other Vulcans, but as they take the right path towards a nearby mapi'kahr, Safiri turns left. The sun of New Vulcan is not as bright as his people remember, nor the soil quite as red, but Safiri is of the ashi'Whl'q'n, and none of them can perceive this difference.

A large, low building of dark stone rises before him. It is carved in the style of Old Vulcan, with long, straight lines, and graded corners that resemble the geometrical growth of crystals. There is a gate, which is not typical of Vulcan homes, but the right of high privacy is granted to all members of the chief clan, and especially those in politics. As a member of said clan, it is also Safiri's right to breach that privacy as a long-awaited guest.

His grandfather greets him at the door, and Safiri grins. He cocks his head to one side in affection, and wraps his arms around proud shoulders.

"Tonk'peh, os'sa-mekh," he chirps. His bag drops from his shoulder to the stone path, as the familiar address trips off his tongue with more inflection than strictly necessary. His strange accent marks him, but he doesn't mind as Sarek replies with a long blink, and a chastisement smoothed by time.

"Safiri, your insistence on poor grammar, and lack of attention to proper aspirants continues to be inconsistent with your absolute fluency," he states.

"I know, os'sa-mekh."

"It is illogical."

"It is," Safiri agrees, stepping back. "But I love you, anyway."

"Pi'bol-kan," he mutters, and though his tone hasn't changed, Safiri can see the affection in the glimmer of his eyes.

Sarek grasps his upper arms, steadying him, the closest to a returning embrace he usually offers, but Safiri remembers an exception.

"Grandfather has sad eyes," he whispered once to his mother, during his Vin-masupik.

His father, hearing this, leaned toward him to reply, "Eyes can be neither sad, nor happy. Their expression is altered only by the surrounding orbital muscles, and their effect on the flesh thereby."

"Of course, Baba," he says, as though his father is a particularly dense child himself. "But I mean the things behind his eyes look sad."

"Shh, kitoto," his mother sighs. She sits upright beside him, her fingers twist in her lap, and he's glad she isn't allowed to touch him just now, as her heightened anxiety is working in him even at a distance.

Still, he thinks, the ceremony is long, and her lap would be a logical place to rest, because he is tired. But his pride overtakes his fatigue.

"Do not call me that, ko-mekh," he protests in a fierce hush.

"Forgive me," she grins, and turns her head to him, just enough to catch his eye. "Today, you are sa-yonuk!"

This pleases him, and for a moment, he forgets that he must be still, he must be stone, and he giggles. His father frowns. He can feel his mother's stomach clench as though it were his own. Sarek says nothing at all. It is only Safiri whose voice clatters through the silence, like an ancient, runaway cart.

Then T'Pau, presiding over his presentation to the clan, looks askance at him, as though he's a strange curiosity, before she tuts obliquely, and says, "Mau-kahwa'ath al'a'nirih."

This delights him even more, and he kicks his feet. He wants to share this joy with his Baba, and he swivels in his seat, careful to keep his hands tucked beneath him, as he was instructed. But the sight that greets him is not at all the tilted head, and crooked mouth of amusement, but a rather more alarming one.

"Baba!" he exclaims. "You've gone all green!"

His mother's laughter tickles his belly as she fights to repress it, and it's hardly his fault when his own voice joins hers in mirth.

After the ceremony is complete, his father stands with his mother. From his place at the edge of the circle, he cannot hear what they discuss, nor can he sense his father, and he supposes that he's carefully shielding his thoughts along their bond. This doesn't worry him particularly, as Baba has sometimes blocked him before.

"Oh, kidege," his ko-mekh consoled him, the first time he woke to the blunted presence in his mind. "Sometimes, Baba just gets stuck."

"Well, then he must learn to get unstuck," he countered. "It is not logical to stay in the dark."

"That's what you're here for," she replied.

"And you?"

"And me," she agreed. "I am named for the stars."

"And I, for the journey."

"That's right, Safiri-kam. So, you see, Baba would be lost without us."

This time, however, it is his mother's job to find Baba, and Safiri can see her fingers pressed to her husband's in the ozh'esta, keeping him tethered as his father's deep, serious voice hums along the desert floor. It is T'Pau they face. His father keeps his head bowed, his chin tucked, but his mother's chin never dips below its perfect parallel.

Sarek slips with perfect grace onto the stone seat beside him.

"Hello, os'sa-mekh!" Safiri says. He is pleased to see his grandfather, but rather hungry, and his patience for his father's tendency toward debate and discussion is wearing thin.

"T'nar pak sorat, sa-fu t'sa-fu," He raises his hand, fingers split in couples, and thumb wide.

Safiri twists his own small digits into the best approximation he can muster. His father spent the whole evening previous helping him learn the contortion, but without his guiding hand, Safiri's fingers refuse to align themselves, properly. Ko-mekh said he'd once not known how to wave, either, and that it's only practice he lacks. This, he decides, is a much easier thing to overcome than ignorance, so he does his best for Sarek, now.

"Dif-tor heh smusma."

"You do me honor," Sarek says. "However, that salutation is more appropriately applied to a leave-taking."

"Yes, os'sa-mekh."

"And you know that such a title does not exist. I am sa'mekh'al, or perhaps, on a day such as this, sa-mekh t'sa-mekh."

"Yes, os'sa-me – I mean, sa-mekh t'sa-mekh." He is silent for a moment. "That is too many words for my mouth."

"Words take up no space, Safiri. There can never be too many for one mouth. It is impossible."

"Baba says there is no such thing as impossible."

Sarek tilts his head, to regard his son, a small, bowed, silhouette in the middle of the amphitheatre.

"Indeed," he responds, the slight lift on the second vowel giving away his interest, and perhaps, some degree of approval. "Then he is a wise sa-mekh."

"Baba is the wisest, and best sa-mekh," Safiri stoutly declares. He glares at Sarek, daring him to say otherwise, before clinching the argument with, "And he gives the best hugs."

"Does he?" The voice that comes is weary, like wind that's blown over the sand from the sea, and carries only dust, and the memory of water.

"Of course!" Safiri cries. "Haven't you ever been hugged by Baba?"

The lines on Sarek's face deepen, the sad things behind his eyes shine, and Safiri wonders if his grandfather isn't truly ancient. It seems to him, that the man beside him is much, much older than even T'Pau, and he wonders if they haven't mixed up who's father to whom in his clan's family tree. After all, one-hundred and fifty-one years is an awful lot to remember.

"Vulcans do not hug, Safiri."

"That is not true," Safiri argues.

"Safiri," his grandfather chides, "It is impolite to contest the word of an elder."

"I do not mean to contest you, os'sa-mekh," Safiri says. His brow furrows in sympathy. "Only that, perhaps you do not realise you are in error, and it is only logical to educate you so that you may proceed with more knowledge in the future. Baba gives the best hugs, and Baba is a Vulcan. Therefore, your statement is false."

Sarek regards him for a moment, his gaze finally drawn from its soft study of his son. His mouth bends upwards in the middle, but it is not a frown that stretches the muscles out there. Instead, Safiri watches his eyebrows pull together, straining downward to his mouth, and decides that his grandfather is trying to squeeze his brain into better understanding. He knows this expression because he sees it on his father, his mother, and on school days, he wears it himself.

"Do you know," his grandfather says then, "I have never been hugged by your father?"

"That cannot be true!" Safiri says.

"It is," Sarek assures him. "But his mother - your ko'mekh-il - embraced me more than once."

He considers this for a moment, as he watches his father raise his hand into an effortless farewell. T'Pau returns the gesture, while Safiri squeezes his brain.

"She must have been almost as good as Baba, then," Safiri concludes, "For he must have learned it from someone, and it could not have been you."

"I believe she was most skilled," Sarek nods. "However, there is no way to compare her skill to your father's, for she is long departed, and my own experience is limited."

"This is true," Safiri agrees. A frustrated sigh escapes him, as he contemplates how to convince Sarek of his father's competency, but then, his mother calls to him. He stands, starting toward her before he remembers himself, and turns back to his grandfather.

"Goodbye, os'sa-mekh." he says. Then, after the briefest consideration, he launches himself at the aged Vulcan, arms thrown open like doors on a summer day. He collides with a very surprised body, encased in the thick folds of ceremonial robes, and burrows as deeply as possible. The fabric is cool, and he gets pleasant goosebumps along his arms as he rubs his cheek over the weave. Eventually, the academic hands of Sarek fold over his shoulders as though he's a small, and precious book, and Sarek hugs him back.

It is only a brief moment before he steps away. Sarek's eyes are bright again, but Safiri doesn't see anything dark, or lonely behind them like he had before.

"Do you see, os'sa-mekh?"

"Indeed," Sarek replies. "In this, I believe you may be more proficient than il-se'sa t'adun'a."

"That is because I learned it from Baba," he says. "Dif-tor heh smusma, sa'mekh t'sa-mekh. Love you."

Sarek raises his hand.

"Sochya eh dif, t'pi'sa-fu-al."

He races over the stone, raising the dust, and swinging at stray pebbles that cross him on route to his parents. His mother is smiling, and he can feel her steady, and calm, like midnight in Kenya. His father is cold, too, but it is not a comforting chill. When Safiri hooks his smallest finger into the crook of his father's, he's met with a stern glare and a still faded bond.

"Safiri," his father begins. "You know that it is improper to embrace a Vulcan."

"Yes, Baba," he agrees. "But I only did it because ko'mekh-il cannot, anymore, and os'sa-mekh did not remember how."

Then, his father's finger tightens on his own, and such warmth floods the threads between them that Safiri can't help but laugh. He watches the trick of his father's mouth, and feels him smile back.


	2. A Dictionary of Sorts

A little dictionary to help.

Va'Keshtu = born again; reborn. In my mind, this is the first, and capital city of New Vulcan.

Baba-al = Safiri uses, and abuses his native tongues. '-al' is the suffix for a male relative, and Safiri has added this bit of Vulcan to his father's Swahili title.

sa-fu = son.

Baba = father; dad.

"nam'tor du kloshu'riolozhikaik" = Very loosely, "you are behaving illogically."

Dorli'sa-mekh = Honorable father, used in formal situations, or to denote particular respect.

t'sa-fu = my son.

ko-mekh = mother; variations thereupon: Doli'ko-mekh (honorable mother); Ko-mama (Safiri's own pet name)

barkaya marak = a Vulcan soup that tastes vaguely of peanuts, so Safiri can't REALLY be blamed for thinking it a passable sub.

balk'ra = a type of casserole dish, with a vegetable sort of like squash.

ra'mashya = a variant of mashya, a type of tuber.

Kroykah! = Stop!

"T'adun, betau" = "My husband, approach."

"Betau-sarlah nash-veh" = "I will approach."

"T'wuh-rak el-ru" = "My first hand"

"Zat-ozh" = "Keen finger". These are two made up Vulcan terms of endearment, probably Nyota's invention, or drawn from Ancient Vulcan. Since their hands are the centres of feeling for Vulcans, it makes sense that pet names reference those organs the way English references one's heart.

Kaiidth = 'What is is'. A Vulcan tenant.

mapi'kahr = a tiny village; a shtetl.

ashi'Whl'q'n = the generation of Vulcans born after the resettlement. Roughly, "repeated Vulcan"; Vulcan, again.

Tonk'peh = hello; a casual greeting.

Os'sa-mekh = "Old father." Technically, not an actual title, but one that Safiri made up himself.

Pi'bol-kan = Literally, 'little full child'. An endearment of Sarek's for Safiri, who is full of life, and emotion, but not in a way he disparages.

Vin-masupik = Literally, 'The Getting Wet'. A (totally made up) ceremony taking place at five years old, when a Vulcan child is formally presented to his entire clan. A precursor to the Kahs-wan.

Kitoto = Swahili for, 'little baby,' or 'infant child'. Safiri is five, and naturally, objects to this pet phrase.

Ko-mekh = 'Mother.' In my mind, Spock refers to Nyota in the Vulcan address, and she refers to him in English, or Swahili. Safiri picked up whatever was spoken the most, and was easiest to say, so they ended up with somewhat backwards family titles.

Sa-yonuk = Literally, 'Quarter-man'. Since, the Vin-masupik is one of the coming of age ceremonies, it made sense to me they'd infer a rank on the child presented. A rather specific measurement of social readiness.

"Kahwa-mau al'a'nirih" = Loosely translated as, "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." More literally, "So similar to his father." Spock sees this as a disparaging comment. Safiri hears it as a compliment.

Kidege = Swahili for, "little bird."

Safiri-kam = -kam is a common diminutive from parent (usually mother) to child.

"Dif-tor heh smusma" = "Live long, and prosper."

"T'nar pak sorat" = Roughly, "Your presence honors me."

sa-fu t'sa-fu = "son of my son."

sa'mekh'al = grandfather

sa-mekh t'sa-mekh = "father of my father."

sa-mekh = father

ko'mekh-il = grandmother

il-se'sa t'adun'a = Loosely, "she-who-is-my-wife."

"Sochya eh dif" = "Peace, and long life."

t'pi'sa-fu-al = Loosely, "my little grandson."


	3. Chapter 2

Penda is nothing at all like her brother. Safiri is fire, and light, and bouncing, shimmering movement. He's sunlight sparking off glass, and the prickle of heat across skin, the moment before a burn. He rips through life like lightening, his path bright, and clear.

Penda isn't like that.

For her, it's all blues, and greens, and bleeding hues. She's silver-quick, but cool. She's the ripples, and the flash beneath mountain streams. She's the mist rising from a meadow at dawn. Baba calls her " _pi'aluk_."

She's four when her parents take Safiri to attend his Vin-masupik on Vulcan. Her father is reluctant to leave her, but her mother insists, saying that this time is for Safiri. The implication being, her turn will come.

She stays with her bibi, looking at old picture books, and holovids of Africa. When her family returns, she's halfway fluent in her fourth language.

"Ko-ma! Bibi says you killed a lion!" she accuses, in near perfect Maa. She holds a PADD in her hands, the slate of it as wide as she is. Her mouth is puckered, and her brows contort as though she can't settle on confusion or disapproval.

Her father stares at her, and her mother laughs.

"What is she talking about?" moans Safiri, wrapped around ko-mekh's leg. "Blah, blah, blah."

"Be kind to your sister," Baba chides, absently. "What does she say, t'adun'a?"

"She thinks I killed a lion," she trills. She can tell by her mother's laughter that she's amused instead of contrite.

Bibi walks into the room, carrying Penda's backpack, her hand-me-down coat, and a bag of snacks her parents would never allow. Ko-mekh reaches for her things, still laughing.

"What stories have you been telling, Mama?" she teases.

But Penda doesn't think it's funny.

"It's true!" she insists, dropping back to standard. "Ask Bibi. She said, she said!"

"T'Penda," Baba says, "Lions are a protected species of Terran. There have been no recorded huntings of such animals since 2089."

But Penda saw the pictures, and Bibi told her so.

At night, Ko-mekh comes to tuck her into bed. She has an old fashioned book tucked beneath her arm, and once Penda has wriggled between cool sheets, her mother lies down beside her to read.

"Tonight, I thought we could read a new story. One about a magician named 'Laibon'," she says.

Penda rolls over, and buries her face in the pillows.

"Do you kill him, too?"

Her mother's eyes go wide, and her mouth twitches in a way her father's never does.

"What are you talking about, mndani?"

She's already forgotten, so Penda reminds her.

"Like the lion," she prods.

Ko-mekh puts the book down. Its corners are dull, and rounded, the grey cardboard of its binding flaking away in shallow layers after years of use. Penda stares at the book, instead of her mother who bobs her head, trying to catch her eyes.

"Penda," she says. "You know Mama didn't really kill a lion, don't you?"

"That's not what Bibi said."

"It was a only a picture," she insists. "Like a holo-vid. I turned thirteen, and it was to celebrate becoming grown up. Like Safiri's Vin-masupik."

"Safiri isn't growed up," Penda refutes, jealous, resentful, and not willing to hear.

"Well, maybe not quite," Ko-mekh allows. "But he is ya-sonuk. It's why Mama and Baba went away. For the ceremony. Remember?"

"I never want to have a Vin-masupik," she states. "I never want to have a Vin-masupik, I never want to kill a lion, and I never want to read your stupid book!"

"That's not very nice."

"I don't care. I hate you!" she declares.

Her mother stiffens, and rises from the bed.

"Penda," she says. Her voice is hard. Tense. It's brittle like an icicle reaching the limits of its draw. "Until you apologise for being so rude, there will be _no_ books at bedtime, from me, or your father. Do you understand?"

"I don't care."

"Penda," she says, and now it's a warning. "Are you sorry?"

"No."

"Penda -"

"No, no, no!"

The lights flick out, and Penda cries until the glow from the little blue lamp at the foot of her bed is blurry, and dark.

She's still sad when she wakes up.

She's still mad when Ko-mekh comes in to help her dress.

Her lip still trembles, and her breath still comes out hot and sweet when Baba plies her with food she cannot eat.

She's silent the whole way to school, and when her Baba walks her into her advanced learning classes, she clings to his finger, and sniffles.

"T'Penda," he intones. He kneels, and his voice is hushed just for her. "T'Penda, it is not logical to cry over something that never occurred."

"But I'm still sad," she wails, and even Baba can read another breakdown in the works.

"Why?" he asks, to stem it.

"Because I _am_."

Miss Lamb, a gentle, golden creature joins them in their clutch by the door.

"That's okay, Penda," she says. "Sometimes, I'm sad, too."

Penda looks at her, scepticism shining through the tears coursing down her face. Baba sees it, but before he can offer anything else, Miss Lamb speaks again.

"But I think your daddy has to go to work. How about we go get a juice box, and sit by the plushie pit for a while?"

She doesn't think that Miss Lamb knows what sadness is, but temptation leads her to trade one hand for another, and she leaves her father, his lower lip caught by his teeth, and just as bereft as she, standing at the door.

Her suspicions are proved correct, and nothing Miss Lamb says makes her feel any better.

She only feels worse, and worse.

When Thomas spills his milk at lunch, she cries. When Emma-Sophia refuses to share crayons with Tith in their Standard lesson, she stamps her foot. When M'thinik and his best friend, Sujay taunt another child, smaller than themselves during recess, Penda screams, and shouts, and pushes Sujay down.

After a week of angry outbursts, and tear-filled nights, she's pulled out of her school group.

"It's nothing to do with intelligence," Miss Lamb assures her parents. "We see this sometimes with the younger children. Separation anxiety. Of course, she'll grow out of it, but we just don't feel Penda's emotionally mature enough to handle a classroom environment right now."

Ko-mekh thanks her teacher, and holds out her hand to her daughter, but Penda shies away, her hands scrabbling at the starched crease of her her father's slacks.

"T'Penda?" he asks, his voiced watermarked with astonishment.

"Up! Up!" she demands. She clings to him with one arm, and reaches with the other, pinky finger raised and pleading.

Her mother looks embarrassed, and sounds annoyed when she snaps, "Just pick her up, Spock."

He regards her, as she darts nervous, guilty eyes at the teacher. Penda's still reaching, her hands still grasping, and finally, her father bends.

"This is not necessary," he mutters, as he settles her weight against his hip. Penda calms instantly, and tucks her head beneath his chin, in the hollow valley of his neck.

Her thumb finds its way to her mouth, and two sets of brown eyes regard Ko-mekh from beneath black fringes.

"I'll meet you back at the flitter," she says, before she flees, leaving Baba to perform the parting social niceties she rarely lets him do alone.

But now, hanging from his side, Penda does her best to smooth his way.

"Bye forever, Miss Lamb," she declares.

Her father opens his mouth, and freezes for a moment, before deciding that this is, in fact, the most optimal farewell he can salvage. So he shuts his mouth, he nods, seconding Penda's dismissal, and follows in his wife's hurried wake.

In the flitter, Ko-mekh is calm once more.

"Things will get better, now," she promises.

Her mother is supervising an advanced linguisitics team about to publish a new theory suggesting a common history for two worlds thought to have developed in isolation. It's tedious, time consuming work that's bound to be controversial, but Ko-mekh convinces Baba that it can be done from home.

But for Penda, the week that follows is no better than the last one.

She stays home, away from the bright, saturated colors of the schoolroom, but by the third day, her outbursts are worse than before, and her mother is exhausted.

At the dinner table, she rests her forehead in her palm, and tries to smile through Safiri's stories. He's been to the reservation with his class, and left with a new-found appreciation for giraffes, in particular.

"Their necks were _this_ long, Ko-mekh," he says, stretching his arms wide.

"Really, kidege?"

Ko-mekh smiles, but even the bend in her lips is tired. Baba does his best to participate for them both. He listens intently, interrupting occasionally to correct Safiri's more colorful descriptions.

"Yep!" Safiri confirms. " _So_ long. A _hundred_ feet long."

"I do not believe that it is possible for any creature to support a neck of that length," says Baba. "Especially, one that only attains an overall average height of approximately six metres."

"No, Baba." Safiri shakes his head, gravely. "It was a hundred feet long. It was this long. See? It was longer than you!"

"Indeed? I should like to see such a creature myself," Baba replies. He dips his head, and locks eyes with Ko-mekh from beneath his lowered brow in a way that means laughter.

But Penda isn't laughing.

She throws her fork to the ground, peas scatterings as runners from a gun.

"He's lying!" she shouts.

Ko-mekh's head jumps from her hand, and whips round to her daughter. Well honed instincts refined by toddlers rear, and she's collecting peas, and bracing Penda in an instant. Baba is equally alert, reaching one hand out to his wife, and the other to Safiri, a second before his indignant voice protests.

"I am not!"

"Are too!"

"Penda, Penda, sweetheart -"

"Baba, he's lying! He's _lying_!"

"Safiri, please, sit down -"

"I am not lying! You don't even know anything, you're just a baby!"

And with that, Penda erupts into catastrophic sobs. Tears cascade down her cheeks, and her wails drown out the shredded remnants of her parents' desperate assurances.

"It's not normal," she hears her ko-mekh say once the table's cleared.

She's in the living room, under the ostensible supervision of her brother, but he's still sore from dinner, and more interested in the conversation one room over.

"She says you're not normal!" Safiri hisses, from the doorway. He clings to the arched frame like a spider, legs and arms pressed in imitation lines, but his head is stuck round in plain view.

Ko-mekh's strident words continue.

"It's not normal, Spock, and I don't care what those teachers, or, or the psychologists say, this behaviour, it's -"

Her father says nothing. Or if he does, it's spoken too lowly for her to hear.

"This isn't separation anxiety. I don't know what it is, but I just..." There's defeat, wrenched from an unwilling soldier. "I can't do this, anymore."

"It's only been a week, Nyota. Surely -"

"It's not getting better. It's not."

"Tomorrow will be different," he vows. "Tomorrow, we will try something new."

The next day, Baba stays home, and Ko-mekh goes to work. She's gone with Safiri by the time Penda wakes up. With her father, she eats breakfast late, she watches holo-vids, and plays with dolls, and all day it's just her and Baba.

She sits on his feet in front of a vid screen, and leans back against his shins. It's a sharp, unforgiving throne, but Baba is softer than he seems, and she's happy to be bracketed by his legs. They don't speak much. They just sit, and Baba watches.

Ko-mekh comes home, and Safiri, too, and the monastic peace of her refuge is pierced with the knife of a thousand feelings. Safiri's so loud, and Ko-mekh so busy. The late afternoon sun shines through the windows, and no matter where she sits, it gets in her eyes. Dinner sizzles in a pan, as the slow melting residuals of class, and study evaporate from the heated shoulders of her family. She wraps her arm around Baba's leg, pressing one ear against the fabric while he confers with Ko-mekh.

They manage to make it through dinner, but it's a tense affair. Ko-mekh constantly tries to distract and truncate Safiri's wilder antics, and Baba runs interference. He slides his hand across the table, palm up, and Penda, sitting on his side tonight, wraps his little finger in her fist.

Then after, when the table's cleared, Baba stands.

"T'Penda," he says, "Dungau-sarlah du, sanu."

She slides off her seat, her feet bare and cooled by the stone floor, and trails behind her father, a little lambent shadow.

"Where are they going?" Safiri asks, but his mother hushes him.

"Sh, Safiri," she says. "This is Penda and Baba's time."

Every night that follows is like this: an anxious dinner, her mother's rigid, reaching arms, and then Baba leading her away, and gradually, things change. Dinner becomes less fraught, Ko-mekh smiles with eyes not weighted down by heavy bags, and Penda feels a persistent calm rock cradled in her chest.

"What're you doing in there?" Safiri prods, later. He's hanging upside down over the arm of the couch, while Penda sits with a puzzle before him.

"Nothing," she says.

"That's boring."

"No," she corrects him. "It's not."

Her voice has learned a new cadence. It's smooth, and lilts with a quiet melody. Safiri says it makes her sound old, old, old. She likes that.

"Then I wanna see," he demands.

So that evening, when it comes time to set her knife and fork aside, to follow her Baba into the study, Safiri, too, leaps from his seat.

"T'Penda spoke to me of your desire to join us, this evening, Safiri-kam," Baba says, when they are all gathered in the dim light.

A small, clay pot, fired red and brown and black sits at the centre of three thin pillows, and Baba is huddled over it, kindling a spark in its bowels. Penda has already claimed her seat, and sits with her legs folded beneath her. Baba always sits across from her. This is so she can see his eyes shimmering dully like calx in the reflected embers of the fire as he guides her. His gaze is her tether, and she falls into the warm embrace of the meditation flame.

Tonight, Safiri sits between them.

"Can I light the fire?" he asks.

"No, Safiri," Baba states, shaking his hand to extinguish the match. "The fire is not the aim, but the focus."

"What does that mean?"

"Shh," hisses Penda.

"Patience, T'Penda. Safiri does not know the way, as you do. Lights, off."

Then, Baba bends, and takes his seat across from his daughter. Safiri follows, settling between them, and the room seems to cradle them as though they are all children. The walls disappear into the darkness, while the little flame jumps cheerfully from the pot, calming as it wraps thin, blue arms around the fuel. Baba folds his legs criss-cross. Safiri does so, too.

"This is called the Vulcan practice of wh'ltri, safu," Baba explains. "What we may call 'Veh Shom'. This is how our people achieve tvi-sochya."

"Peace," Penda says.

She speaks with authority, but no upset, and imagines she sounds like Baba. It's what she's been practicing, but Safiri doesn't seem to notice this time. He leans forward, close to the flame, and reaches out.

"No!" she protests, "You can't touch the fire."

"I'm not!" he sings, his fingers skipping, and dancing around the perimeter of the pot.

"Safiri," Baba says. "Penda."

He speaks, and they are stilled.

"T'Penda, you must have patience," he says. Then, "However, your sister is correct. The flame must not be disturbed during wh'ltri. It is, instead, our focus. To reach a state of peace, we must allow our minds to rest. We must reach out to the flame, but only with our thoughts."

"How?"

"Be still, and I will help you."

"Baba is pyllora-mekh," Penda explains. "We follow him."

"Penda," Baba says, turning to her. His eyes seek hers across the way. "Will you open the circle, please?"

She draws her breath deep, and repeats the words her father has given her.

"Dorli'sa-mekh," she says. "Shoret du etek." _Honoured father, we call out to you_

And Baba calls back.

"T'ko-fu, sarlah etek-dvin." _Cherished daughter, we come to serve._

"Vu dvin dor etwel." _Your service honours us._

"ki'Nufau au sochya-du." _I offer you peace._

"Yi dungi ki'sochya, t'pyllora." _I will have peace, my guide._

Safiri scrunches up his face, and directs his attention to the flame, while Penda watches her Baba over its light. He nods at her, and her eyes slip shut. Without thought, she measures her breath against her father's, and sinks back onto her heels. The black and red behind her eyes fades into white. Around her, Baba's presence hums like starship's engines.

Tonight, she will walk herself into silence. Baba must help her brother, for now.

She can hear the distant murmur of his voice as he tries to guide Safiri into his own rest, but he is miles away from finding anything of the sort. She feels only seconds have passed, and already Safiri is growing anxious. His breath tickles the flame, and she can see it recoil, pressed against the insides of her eyelids like flower petals. His feet scuff against the carpet. His fingers scratch over the coarse fabric of the cushion. He shifts, and sighs, and before long she can hear him stand and begin to wander the room.

In spite of the warmth, and the light, and her best efforts, Penda feels annoyance begin to creep up from her toes. It crawls over her legs, hand over hand, and advances to the point where she wants to open her eyes and speak. But then, Baba is there. He's warm in her head, humming and dark like his voice. He doesn't speak, but she can hear him, all the same.

 _Be still, t'ko-fu. Shom na'sochya._

Much later, her eyes open in time with her father's.

"Qual se du?" she asks. _Is it you?_

"Ka'i," Baba replies, and the session is ended. _I am here, now._

Baba collects the asenoi, extinguishing it while he moves to the shelf that houses it between uses. Penda stacks the pillows, placing them neatly in the corner by the door. Safiri is nowhere in sight. They move together, but do not speak, and when they exit, she flickers behind him, like a little fish at the tail of a school.

Back in the kitchen, Ko-mekh is laughing at Safiri who is hoisted into the air by the seat of a chair. He hangs over its back, dipping his hands into the kitchen sink. Water and bubbles fly from his fingertips, sending Ko-mekh shrieking, and ducking behind a damp dish towel.

"Ko-mama, Ko-mama," he shouts, teasing her into emerging from her shelter, only to shower her again.

The scene is bright, and loud, but Penda is not overwhelmed, as she once was. Instead, her thoughts are ordered, and neat. Perhaps, she feels more removed from her mother and brother than before, but now, now she can comprehend what they can only feel.

And at night, when her mother comes with stories of magicians, and old gods, she reaches up to grasp her hand, and at last, she is at peace.

* * *

Six years later, the asenoi breaks during an afternoon at home. School let out a week before, and she and Safiri have been left unsupervised while her parents see out the work day. It's an accident, but it's her fault.

"Just put it back, and he'll never notice," Safiri insists. He collects the pieces from her hands, and deposits them back on the shelf, propping the shards against each other in an echo of their former shape.

It isn't at all how Baba left it.

"That is an extremely optimistic supposition," she refutes. "Baba, and I use it every night."

Safiri glances at her, and she knows they've somehow both reached different conclusions as to how her father will react. This is in spite of the fact that they have equal familiarity with him, and she's momentarily fascinated by their varied expectations. Then, Safiri shakes his head.

"Baba's going to be pissed," he mourns.

On this, she can agree.

She takes the pieces back, and examines them, as though she can study them back into form. Safiri stalks around the room, hoping another solution will present itself. Apparently, they're united in shared uselessness in this event, as well.

They've got three hours before Ko-mekh and Baba come home, and nothing comes to them in that time. The pieces sit on the coffee table. Safiri pretends they're invisible, and eventually disappears into his holo-vid games, pointedly touching nothing but his controller. Penda, though, can't look away.

When the sound of the door, and soft voices ricochet down the hallway, the two of them stand. They brace themselves, and turn to the noise. Safiri's face is slack, while Penda's mouth is pressed into a firm, mum line.

Her brother whispers a last ditch suggestion.

"Maybe, he can just get another one."

"This one originated on Vulcan, ka-kam. There can be no other."

"Oh, man," he says. "Oh, man."

But Baba isn't pissed.

He regards the proffered shards with no reaction, except to request their transference from Penda's hands to his own. She opens her palms, and watches the fragments flow between them, like sand. The skin of her hand crosses her father's but she feels nothing except herself. Baba is blocking her.

Safiri must feel his silence, too, because he steps forward.

"What if we glue it back together?" he sputters.

"No, Safiri," Baba says. "The glue would not bind effectively with clay of this type. There is no use in making the attempt. The asenoi is beyond repair."

"But -"

But even Safiri sometimes recognises the value of silence. Even if he is reluctant to grant it.

Baba takes the pieces with him, sheltered beneath the cavernous overhang of his chest, and rounded shoulders. He moves into the kitchen, and Penda can hear the pieces ring against each other, and the metal walls of the waste bin.

"Baba," she says, following silently behind him. "It was an accident. Ni'droi'ik nar-tor."

Baba straightens, instantly, and regards her without expression.

"It is no matter," he states. _"Kaiidth."_

There is not much space between her, and the exit toward the hallway, but Baba does not touch her as he passes by. And Penda doesn't miss that he never offered forgiveness.

"Okay," Safiri says, when she relays the incident to him, later. "But to be fair, it isn't logical to offer forgiveness for something that was nobody's fault."

"But it _was_ my fault," Penda says.

"It was an accident," Safiri corrects.

"That does not mean I am not to blame."

But Safiri is a stalwart defender, and a determined optimist.

"I don't think Baba blames you."

"Well, I blame me," she says.

Safiri leans close, touching his forehead to hers.

"There's nothing to forgive," he says. "But Baba forgives you, anyway."

He's right, she knows. But it doesn't make her feel any better.

The summer passes by hot, and dry as ever. Ko-mekh says this is the best time of year, because it's when Baba finally feels at home.

"San Francisco is too damp," she says. "And cold."

"I like the rain," says Safiri. "But I like the sun, too. Every season is my favourite."

Baba says that home is where his family is, regardless of the weather.

Well, he actually says that "'Home' is merely a construct with a variety of meanings that are unique to the context in which they are used, and, in any case, the seasonal fluctuations of Earth have little in common with those of Vulcan. However, I am content, here."

"Yeah, Ko-ma," Safiri jokes. "Aren't you supposed to be a linguist? Specify."

Penda thinks Ko-mekh is right, though. And she thinks Baba agrees. But so little of Vulcan remains, that sometimes, she knows that Baba needs to pretend that it's all gone to keep from being constantly surprised by its loss.

This makes her think of the asenoi, and she regrets its destruction afresh.

She never knew Vulcan. She never felt its sun, or breathed in its dust. She never saw Shi'Khar, or her grandmother's rose gardens. She doesn't know what a sehlat's fur feels like beneath her fingers, and she never walked the forge for her kas-wahn. She doesn't know what her father's lost. But she can feel it.

Sometimes, when night comes, and the land transforms from the Vulcan desert to a Terran plain, she can feel the sorrow wrung from her Baba like the last rays of light from the sun.

On those nights, he sits outside until Ko-mekh worries, watching him from the window, waiting for him to rise.

Meditation is harder, on those nights, on her own. Penda wishes she could help. She wishes she could at least understand. She wishes she understood about the asenoi.

And then, she gets an idea.

It's not any solution offered by Safiri, or any consolation offered by her mother. It's not the merciful dismissal of her father. It's her own.

In the last week of the warm summer days, her father is particularly withdrawn, but Penda is finally ready.

One evening, as he sits, shivering on the porch, Penda steals out and drapes a blanket over her Baba's shoulders.

"You make Ko-mekh worry when you do this, you know," she says, sitting beside him on the bench.

"There is no need," he replies. "I am quite well."

"Intentional obfuscation is illogical, here," Penda chides.

Her Baba tilts his head, and regards her crookedly, eyebrow raised.

"Who is the Baba, here?" he questions. Then, "However, I must praise your vocabulary. It is impressive for one your age."

"Baba," Penda chides. She rolls her eyes at him, full of fond annoyance.

They are silent for a while, as Penda contemplates her next move. Finally, when no natural segue presents itself, she stands, and withdraws a small package from the folds of her coat, holding it out to her father, saying nothing.

"Penda," he asks. "What is this?"

"Open it."

He grasps the gift with gentle hands, and the paper sloughs off beneath them. Their contents is revealed, and soon her father cradles a small, clay pot fired red and black and brown.

"My asenoi," he murmurs.

Baba is so struck by it in a way so unnatural to himself, that Penda feels the need to clarify. Her words come out quickly, twisting into the shape of the sincere, and earnest apology she'd wanted to offer for months.

"It is not truly your asenoi," she explains. "It is only my impression of it. I attempted to recreate it from memory, but I never truly studied it during our meditation sessions, and as a result, my replication of it is imp-"

"It is perfect," Baba states.

It is not, and Penda knows this.

"Baba?"

"T'Penda," he says, his hands wrapped around the little pot. "It is true that your asenoi is not as precisely rendered as the one on which it is modeled, but it has been crafted by _you._ "

"I do not understand," she frowns.

"The asenoi that was destroyed came from my home – a home that I can never return to. But this one comes from my daughter. It is my daughter's impression of her own history, and as such, a more perfect representation of my home than any other vessel could be. Do you understand, pi'aluk?"

She studies the round, though slightly asymmetrical pot in his hands. She thinks that perhaps she should have practiced for another month, rendered another test piece, or painted the Vulcan characters with more care, but then she looks at his face, and Baba is smiling. It's quiet, but the joy is there.

"That word is very imprecise," she chides. "But I understand, Baba. And I am here, now."


End file.
